


The Other Path

by ScriptrixDraconum



Category: Outlander (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 05:58:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2417537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScriptrixDraconum/pseuds/ScriptrixDraconum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Claire realized she had traveled back in time, she immediately attempted to go back home. The stones, however, were now dormant, and she was stuck, alone, on Craig na Dun. Days later, after living off of berries and spring water, she took it upon herself to find more food. Instead, she found Dougal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

> Written upon request. And other reasons.
> 
> This short story is completely and extremely AU but mostly in character. The plot basically takes another path from moment one, changing many other aspects of the story. It has nothing to do with my other Outlander fic.
> 
> I wanted to write a little story about a Claire and Dougal pairing, and in order to do that, I had to change a few circumstances that would allow this twist to make sense. If you're curious as to why, don't be afraid to ask.
> 
> I wasn't particularly sure about how to tackle this plot rewrite, but this seemed to turn out alright. I admit my take on the language of the characters may not be totally on target, but I did my best.
> 
> Adult themes within. M for a reason.
> 
> I obviously do not own any characters nor the events that transpired in the book or TV series.

 

Claire had been roaming the hills and groves for nearly two days, never quite brave enough to wander too far from the stones. Though she was ever hopeful that Frank would find her, she had to admit to herself that something was amiss. After her experience, hearing the stone scream and recovering from a remarkable dizzy spell, the car she had driven up the hill was missing, and the weather had changed drastically. She figured she had lost consciousness for an hour or more – long enough for someone to steal her car and the weather to shift.

The first thing she did, once panic faded, was assess her situation. The stones. The head rush. The changed weather. The fact that she couldn't find the road.

She couldn't find the road. She knew exactly where it should have been, out in the open, unconcealed by brush or trees. It simply was no longer there. Hours passed and she reassessed continually, thinking on the possibilities. When she ruled out all possible explanations, she began to think on the impossible.

Abduction. Hit over the head, in a lengthy coma and taken somewhere, to some identical hill with identical stones but no access road.

Hallucination. She had, for one reason or another, imagined the screaming stone, imagined the road in the first place, perhaps even imagined the car. Or, conversely, she was hallucinating now, somehow  _not_  seeing the road and car.

Time travel. She had read "The Time Machine" more than once, and while she knew in her bones that time travel was impossible… Was it, truly? Time could erase roads. Going forward, enough time could pass for grass to reclaim the land and erase a dirt road. Going backward, the road might not yet exist.

 _The stones_. Since when did stones make noises? Humoring herself, she walked back up to the tall stone that had screamed, the one she had touched. She examined it, looked for markings or engravings or  _anything_  at all that could distinguish it from any other  _menhir_. But the stone was indeed ordinary, and wasn't even screaming any longer. She pressed her hands to the cold surface, wondering,  _hoping_  that if…  _if_  she had, indeed, been sent forward or backward in time, touching the stone again, perhaps stepping through its cleft, would send her back. Back to her time, back to Frank.

It didn't.

. . . . . .

A small pond, fed by a gentle cascade, was her only source of water, but she was thankful for its proximity to the stones. She worried for her health, that she would imbibe some kind of unfriendly bacterium from the unboiled water, but so far her digestive system failed to rebel. Unfortunately, food was harder to come by.

She had been hungry before; true hunger, when meals were about a fifth of the desired amount and the mind began to fantasize about cakes and hardboiled eggs… anything, really. She knew enough about wild flora to be able to identify edible root plants by their foliage, but she found none of those. Wild berries were few and far between, but they were at least something to put in her stomach.

When Frank had failed to come find her – though, how would he, if she was truly no longer in her time? – when hunger overpowered any other desire, she made the conscious decision to explore farther afield. Ambling downhill, she followed a creek she had found, leaving strips of cloth from her clothes along the way as breadcrumbs that she could follow back to the stones. The countryside was generally devoid of noise pollution, and Claire hadn't been traveling long before she identified the sound of a much larger waterfall somewhere off to her right. Curious to see if the area would offer anything more substantial as far as food, she trotted off toward the thundering sound.

The landscape became more and more forested the farther she traveled. Finally, she broke through the tree line and found herself staring down a sharp cliff at a sizable body of water. Not quite a lake, but much bigger than the pond she had previously known. The waterfall was as large as she had guessed. Water crashed down to the pool after passing over varying angles of smooth and jagged rocks. Unfortunately, she saw nothing from her vantage point that looked edible. Just in case, she followed a path with her eyes, planning her descent.

Claire had taken only four steps along her way down when she heard a large splash from below. She ducked behind a large tree and froze there, watching the pool to see what had made the noise. A few seconds later, a man bolted up from the surface of the pool and roared, exhilarated from having dove into the cold water. He shook droplets from his head and proceeded to wash his face before turning onto his back and floating lazily on the surface. It didn't take Claire long to confirm that the man was completely nude. She turned away quickly, a reflex of modesty and propriety, but curiosity soon won over and her gaze returned to the pool.

She wasn't terribly far up from the water – close enough to identify several of the plants lining the pool, and close enough to be presented with a detailed view of the man's anterior. He was an older man, likely in his fifties, but his body told a story of a healthy active lifestyle, though perhaps a tad too much alcohol, judging by his slight paunch. He wasn't at all hard on the eyes. When the man turned over, Claire's examination of the man's physique was complete. At the sight of the meaty, round derriere, Claire failed to suppress a giggle. She blamed her hunger-induced lightheadedness for such a reaction.

The man stopped swimming the moment she quieted. He jerked around to where she stood, and it took her just a moment too long to duck back into the shadow of the trees. He had seen her. Cursing herself, she ran back the way she came, back to the creek, to her breadcrumbs. And then, she stopped. Panting and dizzy, she grasped a low tree branch before slumping against the trunk and sinking to the ground.

"What are you doing?" she breathlessly asked herself. She needed food. She needed help. If she was still in her time, she needed to contact the police, find her car, and make her way back to Frank. If she wasn't in her time… then she  _really_  needed help. Confused, stressed, hungry and exhausted, she planted her face into her palms, and wept.

It hadn't been more than five minutes before Claire made up her mind to return to the large pool and, granted the man was still there, ask for him to help her. The possibility that the stranger was dangerous only crossed her thoughts briefly. On her way back to the waterfall, wiping her face of tears, she asked herself questions –  _What if he's a murderer? A rapist? Crazy? Who willingly swims in ponds on chilly mornings?_ She caught herself asking and answering aloud, and couldn't help but laugh.

"Are ye alright, lass?" a gentle but voluminous voice called from behind her.

Claire gasped, and spun around. The man had somehow rounded her path in search of her. Thankfully, he had found the time to wrap himself in a plaid blanket, though apparently that was all he spared the time to dress in.

"I… yes, I'm…." Frazzled, among many other things, Claire sighed, and her shoulders sank. "No, no I'm not alright. I'm lost. Or, well, not lost so much as abandoned. Not even that, I suppose…. Please, I need food, and I need help finding my car. If you can get me to a phone, I could call the police. But, more than anything, food. I'm  _starving_."

The man eyed her curiously, brows furrowed with either concern or confusion. A moment later, he asked, "Did ye say you needed help finding yer cat?"

Claire's mouth, at first, failed to form a response. "No, my car. Car. Do you live nearby? I haven't seen a house." She hadn't seen anything on the landscape. No homesteads, no horses or sheep or cattle, and not the road that would have taken her back to Frank. Had she found the road she would have headed back to town on foot. Without the road, however, she wasn't particularly sure about direction, and given the circumstances, the possibility of time travel or other such displacement, she had decided to stay put.

Thinking back upon what she had just said to the stranger in front of her, she could have kicked herself. What if she was no longer in her time? Certainly the man now thought she was a bit off.

All at once, the weight of her predicament struck her emotions, and she began to sob. Trembling, she found it necessary to apologize to the nearly naked man. "I'm sorry, I just really, really need some food."

The man's expression changed from confused to wary, but eventually, he grunted an acknowledgement. "I figured you'd been about the woods a while, judgin' by the state of you, clothes ripped an' dirty. Come on, then. I've food to spare."

Claire sniveled and nodded in thanks, and walked ahead in the direction where the man gestured, back down to the waterfall. Along the way, she caught a glimpse of the man's left bicep. It had been nearly sliced in half lengthwise by a blade, and stitched haphazardly. The skin was swollen and angry, and from not far away Claire was delivered the sweet smell of infection.

"You're injured," she noted the obvious. "The cut looks infected."

"Why do ye think I took a bath?"

"I think you're beyond the healing powers of pond water, now."

The man grimaced, suppressing a response he thought best unsaid. A moment later, he instead asked, "You know a thing or two about doctorin', then?"

"I do," Claire replied.

The conversation dropped there, and the two proceeded in silence.

The man had indeed jumped from the cliff to the pool, but from the opposite side from where she had been standing. There hanging from branches were his clothes, his other belongings set on a large root. The garments looked a bit peculiar, but she didn't bother thinking further on them. He grabbed his clothes and began to remove his blanket, and Claire politely turned away.

"I-I'm sorry," she stammered, nervous, "I don't believe I got your name." She figured since she had seen the man naked, she might as well initiate a formal introduction between them.

"Dougal MacKenzie," the man offered after clearing his throat.

"Claire," she replied. "Claire Beauchamp."

"How long ye been in the woods, Claire?"

"Ehh, two days, about."

Dougal chuckled. "No wonderin' why you're hungry. Must be cold, too, wearin' nothin' at all. Unseasonably cool of late…. I'll take you back to the camp, warm ye up."

 _Camp?_  The man must have been on a camping holiday, Claire figured, still working with the hopeful possibility that she was still in her time.

She let Dougal finish dressing in silence. The clink of something metal thankfully signaled a buckling belt or the like. Soon she could be taken to food, to a phone, perhaps be given a blanket to wrap around her chilled body, and be allowed to nap for a while.

"So, tell me, Claire," Dougal began, approaching. Claire turned to greet him, and was stunned by what she saw. The plaid she had deemed a blanket was not a blanket at all, but a kilt. And not just the skirt-like kilt, but the full body type not seen on normal occasions. Completing the ensemble was a sporran, sword, and pistol, even a woolen cap. If the man had been camping, then he was unlikely to have been attending a formal social event, Highland games, or any such festival anytime soon, and therefore there was no explanation for him sporting traditional Scottish regalia. She had been right – the stranger was a crazy person. That, or she had indeed gone back in time far enough to when Scots dressed themselves in such a way.

Before she could move, or say anything at all, Dougal continued with his question. "What is an English lassie doin' up in these lands?  _Alone_?" He stressed the last word as if it were an accusation.

Claire had been distracted by Dougal's outfit for far too long, judging by his reaction. The man drew his sword and held it lazy and low in front of him, adding to the intimidating scene. "Lost," she said quickly. "I told you, my car is missing."

Dougal paused a moment, thinking, and then, shaking his head, he chuckled. "That accent…. You're missin' yer carriage, then? Who were you travelin' with? Why did they leave ye?"

Not looking behind her, Claire eventually backed into a rather wide tree, and found herself trapped. "What? No, it was just me and my car. Well, not  _my_ car, but…. I went to look for a flower at Craig na Dun. It's just me."

"A flower," Dougal repeated flatly.

"Yes. _Anemone patens_."

"An enemy what?"

Claire stopped her corrective reply, and as Dougal edged in ever closer to her, sword still in hand, swinging back and forth as if to keep his wrist nimble, she chose less combative words instead. "How about that food, then?"

"Maybe after ye tell me who sent you."

" _Sent_  me? No one sent me anywhere."

Dougal halted his slow approach, and commenced eyeing her over, top to bottom. "What 'appened to the rest of yer clothes, then?"

"Attacked," she lied. It was the first word that came to her tired mind, and without the filter allowed by a full stomach and wholly cognitive brain, the word took it upon itself to be spoken.

"Attacked? And who was it that attacked you?"

"I didn't stay around long enough to learn his name."

Dougal's facial muscles relaxed one by one, and eventually his stern expression was replaced by something along the lines of amusement, or perhaps relief. He huffed a light laugh, closed the distance between them, and took her upper arm with his hand. Not roughly, but not gently either.

"Come on, then," he crooned. "Let's get you fed."

And on they walked, downhill and further away from the standing stones, toward what Claire hoped would be a  _warm_  meal, though anything as little as an apple would have been welcome. They walked briskly, and Claire couldn't help but notice that Dougal never sheathed his sword.

. . . . . .

Claire had been traveling with Dougal and his companions for a little over a week. They had stopped by a village to collect rent and other such tariffs, and the first chance Dougal had, he saw to it to dress Claire properly for the weather, and for modesty's sake.

It was undeniable to her, now. She was in another time. As best she could figure, she was in Scotland in the 1700s. Clues, such as everyone's outfits, the technology, the language, and the fact that she overheard conversations about Redcoats all pointed to the early or mid 1700s. She thanked her schooling and Frank for keeping her sharp on historical factoids.

Frank. The thought of him gnawed at her insides. More than likely, he was fruitlessly looking for her. She hoped, for his own good, that he would give up. She had already made one more attempt to travel back, touching every surface of every stone at Craig na Dun, weaving patterns between them, praying to be taken back home. Nothing worked. She was stuck. At least, for now. She promised herself to try again, later, perhaps on another ancient holy day.

Why Dougal and the others saw it necessary to take her along with them was beyond her understanding. They claimed it was for her own good, that without their protection she could be attacked again. That, and they decided it might be useful to keep a healer close by. She had seen to Dougal's wound as well as those of others, gaining her trust amongst the group.

When pressed further about who had attacked her, Claire claimed it was a Redcoat, thinking that the least threatening answer to give. After she had done so, Dougal relaxed around her. She couldn't be sure, but she thought perhaps the man had considered her nationality to be in itself a threat. Perhaps he had thought she was an English spy.

After glancing down at Claire's left hand, Dougal had noticed the gold band on her fourth finger. "You're married, then?" he had asked her.

"Hm? Yes."

"And where is he? I should return you to 'im."

 _Far away,_ she had thought.  _Not born yet…._  "Died. In the attack," was her answer. However false, the matter of the imaginary attack ended there, and Dougal never questioned her again about it. Instead, she was let in on the men's plans.

Soon, she was informed, they would travel to Castle Leoch, the home of these men and of their laird, a young man named James.

. . . . . .

On Claire's ninth morning on the road, she was awakened by the sound of frantic horses and shouts. A gun was fired. Swords clashed. Propped up on her elbows she took in the scene of plaid and red colliding, of Dougal taking out a Redcoat by nearly decapitating him, and of one of the friendlier Scotsmen, Rupert, being run through. Claire screamed, unfortunately garnering the attentions of the attackers. The man who had killed Rupert turned to her. His face was painted the same color of his outerwear. He was grinning like a madman.

He looked like Frank.


	2. Protection

The battle had moved around a bend, and Claire was left alone with the blood-spattered doppelganger.

"Frank!?" she squealed, but found herself otherwise speechless.

After a chuckle, the man who looked frighteningly like her husband approached, but not before wiping Rupert's blood from his sword with the dead man's plaid.

"Sorry to have disturbed you, madam," he answered, a superficial smile broadening his face. "I trust that you're faring well?"

His words were kind, but like Dougal had done when she first met him, this Englishman failed to sheath his sword. He was still on guard.

"I was doing just fine until this morning," she retorted.

The man, who had been approaching Claire slowly, stopped in his tracks. "You're English?"

"I am."

"Pray, tell me," he added to his expression by talking with his hands as well, allowing the sword to swish to and fro with the movement. "What is an Englishwoman doing here in the woods with this lot?"

She had asked herself that same question more than once. The only answer she had ever come across was that she had little to no other choice. The Scots had treated her well enough, Dougal in particular, and the alternative was foraging for tiny berries no more fit for a squirrel while waiting for the stones to let her back through.

 _Bend the truth. Keep it simple_. "They were taking me to see their laird, nothing more."

The Redcoat recommenced his approach. "Is that so?"

"It is."

The grin never left the Englishman's face. Soon he was standing over her, sword pointed first at her ankle and then trickling upwards toward her skirts, and eventually tickling her skin partway up her inner thigh. Claire began to tremble with the thoughts of what the man might do with that sword.

"Randall!"

The shout came from beyond the bend. By instinct, Claire responded verbally to the call, and was startled to hear the Englishman looming above her do the same. In a moment of confusion the two exchanged glances, both wondering why the other had responded to that name. Claire immediately reminded herself that she had previously told Dougal and his men that her name was Beauchamp, her maiden name as opposed to her married name of Randall.

It was Dougal who had called out to the Englishman. The Scot allowed himself a moment to process Claire's unsolicited response, but soon shook it off in favor of turning all attention to the man named Randall.

Claire took advantage of the distraction to reach for the small dagger she had been given by Dougal, something that at the time told her that the man finally trusted her. Thinking she could make a move against the Redcoat, she began to shift forward.

"Claire, no!" Dougal hollered, but was too late. Claire had already slashed the blade against the Englishman's left shin.

Dougal lunged forward, forcing Randall to step back from Claire. Randall jerked away, and the tip of his sword cut a slit into Claire's skirts, missing her flesh. As she scurried to her feet, Claire realized that Dougal was protecting her.

Sword aimed at the Englishman's chest, glancing briefly at Rupert's body, Dougal addressed the man he seemed to know well. "You wanted a quarrel wi' me, Randall, ye got it, but the lady's done naught to ye, so leave 'er be."

Sword raised defensively, Randall glanced down at his shin where his leather boot had been slit, and turned back at Dougal. "I suppose you consider attacking a captain of His Majesty's dragoons 'naught'?"

"That was in 'er own defense and ye know it."

The rest of Dougal's companions emerged into the clearing. They shifted their attentions from Dougal and Randall to Rupert's body and back again. It was apparent that the other Redcoats had been disposed of, and Randall's expression suggested that he knew this. He also knew it was in his best interest to sheath his sword and remove himself from the glen as quickly as possible.

Dougal and his men could have easily killed Randall then and there, but most likely did not because of the repercussions that could follow. Claire wondered what past engagements Randall had had with the Scots, particularly Dougal, and if she had managed to get herself involved with a band of outlaws.

Randall turned to Claire. All smiles, he proclaimed, "And for you, madam, I will return."

And he did, four times. While staying at the castle, Claire had been informed that Randall requested her presence at Fort William, his base of operations. His men had intended on escorting her from the castle themselves. The laird and Dougal had both successfully thwarted Randall's efforts, claiming Claire was not on the castle grounds, was ill, or otherwise engaged.

"What does he want with me, this 'Black' Jack Randall?" she asked Dougal over dinner one evening. She had inquired early on who the man had been, and was not terribly shocked to find out that he was the very same captain from whom Frank was descended. The thought disgusted her, and she preferred not to acknowledge the blood relation.

"You're English, for a start," Dougal answered, "which gives 'im sway over ye.  _And,_  you nicked 'is pretty leg." The man laughed lightly before sipping more wine. "He likely means to question ye regardin' us, in particular Himself."

"Why James in particular?"

Dougal smirked. "The good captain 'as… an interest in Jamie. Ehh, James. He 'asn't been laird all that long…. The lad is my nephew ye ken, and as such I do what I can to protect 'im, laird or no. He and Randall have a past, and no a friendly one. It required some… arrangin' to protect Jamie more securely. The lad was no safe at 'is own family estate, an', so, my brother Colum,  _Gus am bris an là,_ the laird passed and I arranged for Jamie to take over Leoch, particularly when my… when my brother's son died. Leoch needed an heir, and I wasna the one needin' savin' from Randall."

"Was James an outlaw?"

"There was a price on 'is head, aye."

"What did he do?"

"Not nearly enough," Dougal replied with a wink. "Jamie wasna keen on acceptin' the position, but 'e understood the reasons for it. In trade, I was to take 'is own land a ways from here, add it to my name, though 'tis 'is sister an' 'er husband that cares for it." Dougal swigged the rest of his wine, and decided to graduate to whiskey. He also decided to change the subject. "Are ye faring better now, then? Though I suppose several weeks passed isna long enough to be done mournin' for yer husband."

 _It isn't_ , Claire silently replied, and washed down frustration and sorrow with more Rhenish.

. . . . . .

Life at the castle wasn't terrible, Claire had to admit to herself. She had a private bedroom as well as a study where she could practice medicine as the castle's new healer. However, she still counted the days until the next pagan holy day, the summer solstice. The journey to the stones would take several days at the very least, many more if on foot, and she knew she would need to make her way out of the castle somehow, alone. That, or approach Dougal, or perhaps the laird, and express her desire to visit the stones, an excuse for which she had yet to concoct.

One evening, Dougal appeared at her study door, smelling strongly of whiskey but showing no sign of being drunk out of his wits.

"Randall sent men 'ere for ye again," he related, letting himself into Claire's study. "I dinna know 'ow many more times we can send 'em away."

"The Captain's a bit persistent, isn't he?"

"Aye, persistent. Tenacious…. He was the same with Himself. Some say the Captain 'as a wee fancy for the lad." Dougal's mouth creaked with a weak smile.

"How old is Himself, anyway?"

"Twenty-two."

"That  _is_  young, particularly to be a laird, I suppose."

"Aye." Dougal superficially thumbed through a book he'd pulled seemingly at random from a shelf.

"And you're his second, are you? His war chieftain."  _His alcoholic war chieftain._

"Aye, as was I for Colum, my brother."

"Why did you not take on the role of laird?"

Dougal took a moment to choose his words. "I didna have a price on my 'ead."

Claire sipped her tea, a calming mix of chamomile and other herbs and flowers. "Did you want to be laird?"

Dougal replaced the book in favor of another, a hefty one with the title of "Instances of Infection and their Treatments," a treatise written by the previous castle healer.

"I wouldna 'ave declined if offered, no."

Claire chuckled. "Now that's a fine answer."

Dougal let out a low grumble as he skimmed the book, perhaps looking for something in particular.

"Is your arm better?" Claire asked, wondering if the infection had returned.

"It is."

"You're not attempting to diagnose yourself from that treatise, are you? Perhaps I should examine the wound."

Dougal finally looked up from the pages at Claire, but just for a moment. His brow furrowed, and he looked again at the book. "I'm fine," he stressed. "I'm no readin' on my behalf."

"Is someone ill?"

The man exhaled deep and slow, and gave up on reading through the thick thesis. Dust billowed after the book was slid back into place on the shelf.

"No," he finally answered, eerily calm. He rubbed his hand over his beard before wiping his face with the palm. Claire thought he looked tired.

Anxious, or perhaps unsure of himself, Dougal's hands fidgeted a while before he half-turned to leave. "My wife died," was all he said before leaving Claire's study.

. . . . . .

Dougal had left the castle to deal with his wife's funeral, and her estate. Claire was thankful that the few days he was gone, her life at the castle was uneventful, much preferable to the opposite.

Several days after Dougal left, the lawyer of Leoch, a man named Ned Gowan, approached Claire with news, and a proposition that nearly turned her insides upside down. Ned explained to Claire that so long as Randall desired to interrogate her, he could, because she was English and therefore under his purview. Though on paper the Laird of Leoch was on neutral terms with the English, this status could not last long if he kept refusing Randall's request to have Claire brought to Fort William for questioning. Ned then related to Claire how happy they were to have her as the castle's new healer, and that they wished for her to stay as long as she desired. He also cheerfully informed her that she was finally, officially, declared not a spy.

"Therefore," Ned explained, "in order to keep you away from Captain Randall without angering him or his men, we have to make you not English."

Claire wasn't sure she understood Ned's statement fully. "Make me  _not_  English? I can't be reborn elsewhere."

"Ha, well, no," Ned agreed, "but ye can be… in a sorts, adopted into a Scottish clan. It would be the same if you would, say, marry a Frenchman. You would be, in name, French. To declare fealty to a clan would be good enough for us ye ken, good enough to think of ye as Scot and not English, but not good enough for the English to think so. Everything has to be solid as stone. Lawful."

Claire's mind ran through the possibilities of what Ned's last statement could mean. In the end, she settled on one answer. "You're saying… Captain Randall won't let me alone so long as I'm English, and, so… I need to be Scottish. I need to marry a Scot."

"Indeed, Mistress, that is what I am saying."

"And whom do you propose I marry?" she couldn't help but ask. In her mind, she only knew of one man who knew her well enough and indeed  _liked_  her well enough to even think of such an arrangement, and that man was only recently a widower. The coincidental timing ate at her conscience.


	3. Believe

When Dougal returned to the castle, he found Claire missing. No one knew where she had gone, but he had a good idea of where to look. A horse had gone missing from the stables, and so Dougal figured Claire would not be on foot. The next morning he set out with two men in search of the woman; they headed straight for Craig na Dun.

The sun was just about to set when they arrived at the standing stones. It was six days away from the summer solstice, and Dougal had to wonder of the similar timing. When Claire found him in the forest, it had been several days after Beltane, the first of May.

There she was, alone, sat against a  _menhir_ , wrapped in blankets and drinking wine from the bottle. A basket of bread loaves and another wine bottle was tucked back at her side. Dougal asked the men to make a camp nearby and let him confront the woman alone.

"Ye ken, isna yet the solstice," he said as he made to sit down next to the lass, grunting as he did so. Days of riding did nothing for his already sore back.

Claire looked up at the man as he sat, startled by his voice, having not heard him or his men approach. Her mind had been elsewhere.

"'Tis a week away, yet," he added.

She looked away from him and took another sip from the bottle she grasped in her left hand. "I didn't want to miss it," she finally replied. "And… just in case I lost my way…."

Dougal took the wine bottle from her and took a swig, but was surprised at the contents. It was water.  _Shame_ , he thought. "You're tryin' to go back, aren't ye?"

That surprised her. Claire was stunned at the man's words. Never had she confided in him about her origins, about the stones and how she believed she'd traveled through them, traveled through time.

Dougal chuckled. "Ye believe you're the only one to 'ave traveled through the stones?"

Claire's jaw dropped. "How…?"

"I've a friend." He cleared his throat. "A good friend. She came through th' stones years ago. Told me about 'er world, 'er time. Told me things I couldna believe, and other things I could. She never tried to go back, though. Never had a mind to."

Claire wasn't surprised at the notion that another person had experienced the journey that she had. She wondered just how many had gone missing in their own time, only to live a full life elsewhen. She wondered if anyone had ever traveled back.

"I have a life over there," she said, softly. "A good life. I was good at my job. A healer…."

"And, I'll be guessin'," he gently grasped her left hand and ran his thumb over her gold wedding band, "you've a husband as well."

The woman nodded slowly. Dougal watched her tight curls tangle in the breeze.

Claire let Dougal hold her hand, surprising herself that she actually welcomed the warm touch of another. She turned to the man again, taking in the sight of him staring at the stone opposite the one they rested against. She wondered if he had already spoken to Ned about what the lawyer had proposed. The possibility was slim, she figured, seeming as how Dougal was only recently free to marry. Nevertheless, she still wondered.

When Dougal failed to speak further, Claire became unnerved. "Do you mean to take me back to the castle?" she asked. Part of her, a deep, suppressed part, was not terribly averse to the idea.

"No," Dougal replied, tone graduating in pitch at the end of the sound, suggesting he had something else to add, though he failed to do so.

"Do you rather intend on sitting here with me until the solstice?"

Dougal didn't answer at first. He took his time, chose his response carefully.  _Never appear too eager_ , he reminded himself. "If tha's what it takes," was what he came up with.

Claire watched him as he spoke. He was calm, not disheartened or flustered in the least, just, simply, there. She wondered if Dougal was in the least saddened by the loss of his wife. She wondered if he was  _happy_  about her death. She wondered if he had somehow caused it. She looked away and closed her eyes, stomach churning with the thought.

"Did ye try today yet?" Dougal asked. "Going back."

"Yes."

"An' without even so much as a note…."

When Claire turned to look at the man again, she found him smirking. "I suppose of all people, you're the one for whom I should have left a note."

Dougal smiled.

"Do your men know why I'm here? Why they're here?"

"They know as much as they need to."

"Won't they wonder why they're here for days, doing nothing?"

"They willna be doin' nothin'."

"They don't know about the stones?"

"Oh, most know th' stories, but as far as I can say, only I know someone who claims comin' through."

"What stories are there about this place?"

Dougal handed the water bottle back to Claire. "Mostly women. Mostly goin' elsewhere rather than comin' in. Some come back. But, they're just stories, ye ken. I would guess most dinna put much faith in such tales."

"Did you think your friend mad for telling such a tale?"

"Och, aye," he laughed. "But then she told me about 'er time, and I'd no real reason to disbelief the lass."

The pair sat in silence until the sun was set, and the night air chilled their bones.

"Weel," Dougal began, standing up, "I suggest we head on to camp. Eat and sleep. You can try again tomorrow."

Claire stood as well, but neglected to follow Dougal down the hill. He noticed, and turned, hands planted on his hips in a clear display of impatience.

"Why did you come looking for me?" she demanded. "Surely you have any number of things that are more important than tracking me down."

Dougal grinned, and walked back up the hill, slowly, speaking as he did so. "One: th' laird an' 'is lady requested it. Two: the castle folk 'ave grown accustomed to your presence, to your doctorin'. I think we all have. Three…." His grin grew wider as he stepped closer to the woman. He bowed forward, lowering himself to her height, and finished his list of reasons. "I enjoy a bit o' a challenge." He chuckled and stood straight. "Now c'mon. The lads'll have set camp by now."

. . . . . .

Every day, Claire tried everything she could think of to get back home. Dougal looked on, suggesting different tactics and offering encouragement, but in reality he was simply standing guard. With every effort, Claire failed. The men were kept away, sent out on hunts or other errands, just long enough for Claire to do what she needed to do.

The solstice came and went, and Claire never so much as heard the stones whisper. They were as dormant as any other stone anyone had ever seen anywhere.

On the morning of the second day after the solstice, after Claire tried one last time, Dougal had to suggest they return to the castle, and that she perhaps try again next year at the next Beltane.

"A year from now," Claire muttered, defeated.

"Aye."

"And what am I to do until then? Why not try at every old holy day, every turn of season?" Under her breath, she added, "Every day."

"That's not a journey I'd recommend ye take often. At least not while you're… while Randall still 'as 'is mind set on ye."

 _Randall_. Claire recalled the conversation she had had with Ned, about becoming a Scot for the sole purpose of evading Captain Randall's pursuance. She again wondered if Dougal was the one that proposed the idea to Ned, or if Ned only came up with the possibility of Claire marrying Dougal once he was a widower.

"No, no I suppose not," Claire agreed. She remained quiet for a while after, silently mourning the probable loss of her old life, and the loss of her old love.

Once the party was back on the road, Claire riding her horse astride Dougal, she found the courage to breach the topic with the war chieftain.

"I had an interesting discussion with Ned Gowan after you had left Leoch," she admitted.

"Did ye, now?" Dougal replied in good humor.

"He had quite the unusual proposal – a means to keep me out of Randall's hands, as it were."

"And what was that, then?"

Seeking to test Dougal's reaction, she told a half-truth. "He proposed that I sail to France and marry a Frenchman."

 _That_  got Dougal's attention. The stunned look he gave Claire nearly caused her to lose her straight face. She continued with her experiment.

"The arrangement would make me in effect French, and Randall would not be able to pursue me. It's an intriguing possibility, if nothing else. I'm almost considering it. I do love French wine, after all.  _Et je parle français déjà._ "

Dougal knew the woman was playing with him. He had a keen sense of such games. He and Ned had a brief but intense discussion regarding Claire and marriage, but it was only after Dougal got word that his wife Maura died that he suggested to Ned that he be added to the list of suitors. If Ned had done what Dougal had asked him, the lawyer would have recommended Dougal above anyone else to Claire.

Keeping his voice down, Dougal carried on. "Does it no trouble ye that you've a husband elsewhen?" He asked the question, not actually wanting to know the answer but knowing he should.

"Of course it does," Claire replied. "But I can't go back. I tried. You saw me try." She sighed. "I'm stuck here. Stuck in a time when my husband is not even  _born_ yet. In this year, in this time, I haven't been married yet. I  _can't_  have been married yet. That does not change the way I feel…. I doubt anything else will. But, I can admit defeat when I've felt it, and can admit to being afraid, very afraid of Randall, enough to do… well, nearly anything to avoid him. I've heard the stories about him. I know his reputation. I do not wish to add my name to that particular tale."

"So…." Dougal swallowed his nerves. "Ye'd be off to France, then? Jamie's been, he'd 'ave a thing or two as far as advice to livin' there."

Claire turned to Dougal, smirking on the inside. "You think I should go, then? To France?" Claire watched Dougal's jaw muscles clench, and the muscles along his left temple bulge.

"If tha's what ye must do," he said coldly. "But surely," he added, "there 'as to be an option tha' could keep you at Leoch. At least for th' year t' come, 'til Beltane next."

"Oh, I don't know. I quite like France. Ah, well, the idea of it. I haven't actually been."

Dougal was growing impatient. By the smirk on the woman's face, he knew that she was deliberately avoiding the mention of the other possibility, the more simple option, the one that he had proposed to Ned.

A moment later, he couldn't take the frustration any longer. "Christ, woman, are ye goin' t' make me say it?"

"Why, whatever do you mean, Dougal?" Claire responded as coyly as she could feign.

Growling, Dougal edged his horse forward and grabbed the reins of Claire's horse. He set his horse out at a trot off the path into a meadow, turning his upper body back as they went, signaling the others to stay put.

Satisfied they were out of earshot from his men, Dougal dismounted his horse, walked over to Claire, and nodded for her to do the same. Claire floated down from the steed gracefully with Dougal's help. Once she was on her feet, Dougal grasped her upper arm and leaned in close, a breath's distance from the woman's face.

His voice unusually gravelly, Dougal nearly growled his next words. "I ask ye kindly, Mistress, to not play wi' a man so."

Before Claire could respond, Dougal continued. "I know what Ned told you. I know what I  _told_  'im to tell ye. I ken that you could just as well 'ead off to France if ye want. If that is your plan, then I ask ye to say so. If no, then for Christ's sake speak truly on the matter."

Claire stepped back from the man. Arms folded over her torso, she asked the one question that mattered most to her at the moment. "Did you propose this to Ned before or after your wife died?"

Dougal crossed his arms over his chest, mirroring the woman's defensive body language. "The general idea was 'is thinkin', but, aye, I did propose a particular  _aspect_  of the idea, mentionin' that, would I be able, I would take on th' role myself. The timing was simply fortuitous."

"'Fortuitous!'" Claire exclaimed, not believing her ears. "God help you if the ghost of your wife should hear you now."

Dougal's words were sharp and slow, almost angry. "Do not speak, lass, on which ye know naught about."

"You're happy that your wife died; that is plain to see."

"Not happy, just no cryin' over it, ye ken. Nor would she 'ave cried too long over my body, I guarantee ye."

"So that's how it is with you, your marriages, is it? All politics and duty."

"After a while wi' Maura, aye. But I'd like to think tha' not every marriage ends the same. I suspect not, havin' known others, such as wi' my sister an' Jamie's father, and Jamie an' Laoghaire."

"Ah, so the war chieftain does have a heart in there, somewhere."

Dougal closed in on the woman again as he defended himself. "Aye, 'e does." He was hovering over her.

"And so you want to marry me, is that it? And what if I leave in a year's time?"

"I'll allow myself tha' worry when the time comes."

"You'd marry me just to keep me safe from Randall? Doing your service to Leoch by making sure I stay put as healer?"

"Amongst other things, aye."

"What other things?"

Dougal laughed, arms flying up from his sides. "Must I spell it out for ye?"

Claire's only response was moving her arms from her torso to being crossed over her chest instead.

Dougal took a step back, groaned, and wiped his brow with a hand. "You could rattle the feathers off a bird, ye know tha'?" Sighing, he lowered his hand, and approached Claire too swiftly for her to react. Leaning forward and grasping each of her thin upper arms, Dougal kissed the irritating woman, something he had longed to do for weeks but hadn't dared before.

Claire didn't react in the slightest at first, remaining stiff with surprise. When her body shifted with hints of protest, Dougal's hold on her grew more firm. After another moment, he felt the woman relax into him, and their embrace became mutual.

. . . . . .

In a clearing of the castle's surrounding forest with naught but a priest, four men, and the moon and stars looking on, Dougal stood facing Claire, her hands in his. The priest spoke the usual bit in Latin before moving onto Gaelic, the latter unfortunately being wholly unintelligible to Claire. Dougal knew this, and so he translated each line for her just as he said he would, as "a bride ought to ken what she's gettin' 'erself into," he had put it. When it came time to speak their vows, repeating the priest's Gaelic words, Dougal spoke in English, and following him so did Claire.

Claire was nervous, shaking even, though several gulps of whiskey before the ceremony calmed her somewhat. She had removed her wedding band from her previous marriage, her future marriage, before the ceremony, threading it onto a long silver chain which dipped below the top of her dress, hiding itself from the quasi-sin she was about to commit.

Dougal wasn't so much nervous as he was anxious, ever impatient. Between their first kiss and the wedding ceremony, he and Claire had not embraced again, nor had they even talked to one another much. The man felt a desperate need to bed the woman standing in front of him, and the only thing keeping his body from announcing such to all in attendance was the unseasonably cold night breeze that wafted under his kilt. That, and an entire bottle of whiskey in his stomach.

After the vows were recited and silver rings placed onto the appropriate fingers, the Laird of Leoch, James, whom Dougal liked to call Jamie, proceeded in wrapping two strips of fabric around the couple's joined left hands. The bride and groom had torn the strips from their own clothes, from Dougal's kilt and from the skirt of Claire's dress. Wrapping the strips around their joined hands and then tying them both into one single knot symbolized their union more than any words could say. At least, that was how Dougal saw it.

After their second kiss, their first as husband and wife, Dougal hoisted Claire (who was weighed down horribly by her voluminous dress) into his arms. He walked a fair distance from the priest and witnesses, but still within earshot, to where a sizable campfire had been constructed. Surrounding the area were linens hung by yarn from surrounding trees, and a feather mattress had been placed a comfortable distance from the fire. Dougal finally lowered the woman onto her own feet when they were secluded by the bedsheet walls and undid the knot that had been holding them together. Though earlier traditions meant for the knot to hold for a week, it wasn't a necessary nuisance.

Claire had known of Dougal's desire to be married "under the stars", but she hadn't guessed about where he intended to first consummate the union.

"Do you really intend to have me  _here_?" she asked lightly with only a hint of derision.

"And why not?" Dougal asked as he began to undress. "I'd 'ave preferred it without th' mattress. Just us and the grass." Claire saw that he was grinning, and wildly at that. "This is much less bothersome than ridin' all the way back to th' castle."

"Are we meant to  _sleep_  here tonight as well?"

Dougal chuckled as he kicked off his boots. "If ye like. Though I think it better to return to the castle, after."

The heat from the fire was beginning to make Claire's skin itch under her multi-layered wedding outfit. She thought to begin undoing the laces of the dress, but before she could act, Dougal moved her hand away and began the process himself. With deft familiarity, Dougal had Claire in nothing but her shift in no time at all.

Claire closed her eyes. Though still fully covered, she felt exposed. She had wished for more time, perhaps the time it would have taken to make the short journey back to the castle. Then again, she admitted to herself, she would have likely never felt ready.

She forced her eyes open and stared at Dougal's thigh-length tunic, the last stitch of clothing that separated his body from her gaze. She reminded herself that she had already seen him fully nude, though from far away, but the memory only made her more nervous.

Sensing her unease, Dougal stepped forward, slowly, and wrapped a hand around the back of Claire's neck. Taking his time, he bent down to kiss his wife before allowing his body press flush against hers. He was more than ready to take her, and he knew there was no way that Claire couldn't feel his need. Dougal suddenly stepped back a ways, and the unexpected removal of his lips from hers caused Claire to gasp.

There was something about Dougal, something Claire couldn't name that appealed to her. He was handsome and elsewise physically attractive, but there was something else above all that. He was charismatic and brave, protective and strong, but more importantly Dougal desired her, perhaps even loved her, though he had yet to say as much.

A familiar ache ran through her body, a tightening that Claire hadn't felt since last laying with Frank. She removed Dougal's hands from her, reached forward and, slowly, she moved her fingers from Dougal's upper thighs, to his hips and ever higher, lifting the fabric of his tunic up with her hands. Dougal allowed her to undress him, but only permitted her the briefest of eyefuls before embracing her again in a kiss much more passionate than before. Claire moaned into Dougal's mouth, but soon her lips were left wanting again when Dougal moved his head to the side, kissing and sucking at the flesh where the shoulder ended and the neck began. Claire shivered with the intense sensation, and instinctively reached down low, grasping Dougal with enough firmness to win a moan from the man.

Breaking free from her neck, Dougal backed away only enough to lift Claire's undergarment from her body, not caring where the shift landed before diving into her again. He reached down between Claire's legs, pleased to find an intense warmth and inviting wetness. Unable to control himself any longer, Dougal lifted Claire by her waist and deposited her two steps behind her. He then swung one arm behind her knees and the other behind her back and swiftly lowered her onto the mattress. He was above her then, a hand still playing between her legs as he kissed her. Claire moaned when Dougal's thumb caressed a very precise area, and moaned louder still when the heat of his mouth found a breast.

Claire's hands reflexed, digging her fingernails into Dougal's back. The man didn't notice, or didn't mind, but he did back away somewhat to gaze into Claire's half-closed eyes. His fingers remained where they were, working on her with such bold skill to suggest they had performed such tasks many times before. Claire thought her pleasure had nearly peaked when Dougal shifted his body completely over hers and entered her without any warning or request. His thrusts were never slow but insistent from the start. His face was close enough to hers to kiss, but he remained where he was, preferring to watch Claire's face contort in the usual ways a woman's did.

When Claire's moans heightened in pitch and volume, Dougal once again buried his face into the crook of her neck. Her moans increased to pleasure-filled screams, and it was not long before Dougal found his release as well.

Two months' worth of desire now spent, Dougal nearly collapsed on top of the panting woman. As he fell, he rolled to one side, and landed on the mattress with a grunt. The two of them lay there until each caught their breath, all the while holding hands.

. . . . . .

Before the couple returned to the castle that evening, they had bathed in a nearby stream. Initial awkwardness had long since faded, and Claire felt intimately comfortable around her new husband, enough to play with him as she washed him, tickling and nipping at flesh while her hands did all the real work.

Dougal was pleased with his new bride. He had known Claire to be remarkable – intelligent and kind, beautiful and all-around pleasant when she wasn't being utterly impossible – but he had been worried that her predicament and their arranged marriage would end in cold shoulders and silence. Instead, Claire was openly playful, even mischievous, and Dougal had the feeling that his second marriage would be of the kind he had always hoped for, one in which passion never faded.

For the time being, he forbid himself to think about what might happen a year from that night, and let himself soak in every moment of bliss.


End file.
